My Fair Warden
by Superagaentv
Summary: A story about the Hero of Fereldan.


The assassin was resting as peacefully as possible, given his current state of injury – granted, it had been at her own hand.

 _Well,_ she thought wistfully, _most of it._

As the fire crackled, spat, and jumped with the small breeze that blew through the small camp; Caoilainn chanced to glance at their new party member. He was awake, chatting with Wynne – who had been attending him. He was, all things considered, intriguing; and not nearly as obvious as he seemed, though Alistair disagreed.

 _He's tall,_ she mused, _for an elf._

She had been very close to him when he had attacked. In the moments before her foot had found it's spot between his legs, she had wondered how such a creature had come to be her enemy. He wasn't ugly, in fact – if he hadn't been trying to kill her, she might have marveled over the beautiful colour of his skin or the twinkle in his eyes. Instead, she had noticed other things. He reeked of alcohol, and his movements while good enough - was no match for her. She had taken him, and his foolish companions, easily enough.

Something, movement – she realized – had broken her line of thought. As she blinked herself back into focus, she noticed him watching her – and it made her stomach do a little flutter that travelled to her toes, though she did not show it. She remained steadfast in her gaze, not allowing him the satisfaction of her breaking first.

He looked away soon after, and she smiled; looking down at her hands with a grim satisfaction.

Whether he knew it or not, he was afraid of her. Most of her companions had been, at some point – perhaps some still were.

"Here," a soft voice offered, causing her to turn. "It's not much, and it tastes more like feet than wine, but it's warm – and wet."

Alistair.

"Wine isn't normally warm," she commented, her knowledge of such things rushing back to her like an unwanted fly buzzing in her mind. "This isn't one of Oghren's 'special' brews, is it?"

Alistair grimaced, but shook his head. "I learned my lesson the last time. This is from that inn by the Lake, the Princess one."

"Ah yes," she murmured, scrunching her nose up at the smell. "Nothing like ale from one of the more bloody sections of the world."

"Here's to…to-" He was struggling to find the words, she knew. It had not been very long since Ostagar, and the usually jovial young man next to her had gone deadly serious.

"To living." she offered, holding up the glass. He nodded immediately, clinking the old tin mug to hers with a smile, elbowing her ribs gently.

She made no show of pain flashed across her face as she drank. Though she was loathe to admit it, she had taken on too many hits to the side - when she wasn't slashing her enemies into pieces.

"You know," Alistair mused, speaking loud enough for her ears only. "I was wrong about you."

"Oh?" A snicker rippled through her, and she watched his face curiously as the young man blushed. He had no idea how old she was, he had no idea what her last name was – she had not told anyone, and Duncan certainly had not mentioned it. The King had known, and he was dead. Thankfully, more people were responding to _female warden, dark red curly hair, dangerous_ and not _16/17 year old Cousland, the Teryn's daughter._

"Well, you aren't nearly as callous as you appear." Alistair stated cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the insult within that "compliment". "And when you laugh your eyes light up, like gems – not that your eyes are hard. They just glitter, er sparkle, in the firelight. Sten noticed at at first, well he said he wondered how you could be smiling when the world was ending; and I had to explain to him that you were laughing because of a joke, then he wanted to know what a joke was and I had to explain-"

"Alistair." She said gently, signaling that he was getting off track.

"Right." He turned the mug over in his hands, his eyes going to the grass. "It's just that, you've been leading this little band of misfits for a short time – and made it work. We've gotten farther than we would have if it had been me. Plus, no one has tried to kill one another – though I am still not trusting Morrigan not to turn me into a toad."

She frowned. If anything bothered her more than the nightmares about her father and mother, it was when her companions did not get along. Morrigan was troublesome, at times, but she had a good heart – if you were patient and kind. There was a girl who needed kindness badly.

"All I am saying is that I have grown to admire you," he finally stated what he had spent the last fifteen minutes thinking about. "Greatly. I know, I know, don't judge too much – I have never confessed to a girl before."

Opening her mouth to speak, she found no words came. Instead, she blushed – which annoyed her.

All her life, she was used to attention; how could she not? From birth she had been given all the right dresses, and all the right words to say. From a young age, she had found out that men could easily have their heads turned if a pretty girl spoke in a certain way – and her money never hurt either. Any anger, or resentment, was most easily relieved by hitting something – sometime hitting on a member of the opposite sex. It was like a game, The Game – which she had been born into – but a game she would always win.

But being offered a genuine compliment, with no hidden undertones, somehow caught her unaware.

 _Perhaps,_ she wondered, _I have been distracted._

"You don't have to say anything," he mumbled nervously, "I mean, you can if you want to, I just…wanted you to know." His voice was merely a whisper at the end, along with a tender tone that made her uncomfortable.

"Was it when I beheaded that darkspawn emissary," she joked lightly, easing then tension. "Or when I snorted dwarven beer out my nose?"

It worked. The young man smiled, looking up at the clear night sky. "I think it was when you beat Leliana in Wicked Grace."

"Oh?' she raised an eyebrow. "I recall some of us being a few items short of naked before the end." _Myself included,_ she thought wickedly – thought she, Wynne ad Leliana had been the most clothed by the end. Sten had refused to participate, but he had not looked away.

"Believe or not, I have been in more embarrassing situations." Alistair laughed, nudging her again.

This time, she nudged him back – hard.

"Alistair," Wynne said gently, causing the two of them to look up. "The fire is getting low, and I need the light. Would you mind?"

He didn't.

"He's a saint." Caoilainn mused, watching him leave.

"He's young." Wynne replied, watching the warden carefully. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything."

"He'll figure it out eventually." She muttered, looking at the mug filled with warm swill. It wasn't her fault the guy was gullible – and an ex Templar should know that mages didn't need light, they could create it.

"He wants to speak with you," Wynne stated her purpose, meeting Caoilainn's eyes when she chose to look up.

"The assassin?" she asked, somewhat amused. "Whatever for?"

"That I couldn't say, all he asked was for a chance to speak to you." Wynne stated frankly, "Though I would not put it past him to make a pass at you. I have just spent the last half an hour being told that I have marvelous breasts."

Caoilainn studied her for a moment, then grinned. "He's not wrong."

"Oh," the woman huffed, narrowing her eyes at the girl. "Don't you start."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Caoilainn stood up, striding over to the injured assassin with purpose. Seating herself on the convenient log by the elf, she held out the mug of swill to him. He took it without question, but grimaced at the smell.

"It's shit." she stated, making him smile as he took the first sip. "But it's something."

"Ah yes," His voice was smooth, like a perfectly aged ale. "Delightful."

"I wouldn't go that far," Caoilainn huffed, shaking her head when he tried to pass it back to her. "You keep it; it might help numb the pain."

"And your pain?" he asked, the accent vibrating in her ears. "Do not think, my dear Warden, that I did not notice how you grimaced before sitting down."

Smiling, though it did not reach her eyes, Caoilainn said, "That is hardly your concern. Now, what did you want to speak about?"

He shrugged, though it was clear the act gave him pain. "Is it a crime to want to speak to the beautiful woman who, so graciously, has spared my life."

"Probably." Caoilainn answered, voice serious. "Lucky for you, I am the only law around out here. Unlucky for you, I haven't met my kill quota for the day – so don't tempt me."

He laughed.

It was smooth, like his voice, but what struck her was the sound of genuine amusement. "Mmm, yes. Oh no, I believe you. I find it deliciously lucky, to be in the company of such a woman."

She smiled, she couldn't help it. She knew he wasn't lying, that the affection dancing in his eyes was as real as she was – he admired her, and fully understood her commitment to her cause.

To this little merry band of misfits who were her family.

"Was there something you wanted to say, or did I walk all the way over here for you to sing my praises?"

"I wanted to ask, dear Warden, when we might stop somewhere to bathe." he explained seriously, "Not that I have anything against the…. musky smells of camp life, but I have been downwind of you all, and it is not a pleasant smell." he stopped, seemingly thinking. " _Though you do not smell so bad_."

Nodding, she met his eyes easily. "I have been living with this crew for three months now, believe me," she scrunched up her nose, just to make a point. "I _know_. Though, all in all, the four of us aren't bad. I tried giving the dwarf a bar of soap when we were last at an Inn. He ate it."

For the first time all night, the elf looked thoroughly displeased, and that pleased her to no end.


End file.
